


For Your Soul and His Are Brothers

by Beanwhile



Series: Essetir [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Canon Compliant, Episode: s02e13 The Last Dragonlord, Gen, Missing Scene, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 11:17:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3172408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beanwhile/pseuds/Beanwhile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Merlin defeats Kilgharrah, the dragon flies back to the lands that were once his home - Essetir. Cenred is overjoyed and overwhelmed to welcome his oldest friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Your Soul and His Are Brothers

**Author's Note:**

> This fic relies on a nudge in canon according to which Cenred comes from a bloodline of dragonlords.

                The door burst open and a panting guard fumbled in. Cenred recognized in the breathless soldier his Captain of the Guard. The man had been in service of the royal family since forever, even after… well.

                Cenred tilted his head and fixed his eyes onto the man’s face. The Captain had bent over, hands propped on his knees, trying to catch his breath; but when he caught Cenred’s gaze he nodded, and straightened up. Cenred took a swig from his wine and left the goblet back on the table with a bit more force than necessary. The thud was enough to silence the rising hubbub from the Council members. He ignored the sullen looks from a couple of faces.

                “My lord, your father-” the Captain began, but a violent cough drowned the rest of his words.

                Cenred froze. His _father_? For a second wild, scorching hope burned through his chest, one that he had carried within ever since he was a child, one he so often had to crush and swallow down: his father coming home. His father ruffling his hair in a wordless greet, his mother saying something funny, his mother smiling. Cenred did not remember his mother’s genuine smile. After his father perished she smiled sometimes, a smile that only preceded her tears. _That_ smile he despised.

                He sucked in a breath through his teeth, and had to fake a cough to cover it up. His father was dead. The king of Camelot had sent a vague apology to confirm he had been the one to widow the Queen of Essetir. Cenred’s father was not coming back and his mother was not going to be restored to her former self.

                “Speak, man,” Cenred urged. The words came out in harsher tone than he had intended. It was law that no one spoke of King Wulfar and Queen Ermengild in the king’s presence. He hoped for his soldier’s sake the man had all his wits about him. But if he did, which Cenred doubted little, then _what_ of Wulfar?

                “Your father…,” the Captain gasped again, “Your father’s dragon is flying towards the castle, my lord.”

                “Kilgharrah?” Cenred gasped. He could not believe it. The Council was just as stunned. “Kilgharrah is prisoner to Uther Pendragon, Captain, do you need your memory of that refreshed?”

                “I know Kilgharrah as I know _you_ , sire.” The Captain insisted. It made Cenred slightly uncomfortable. He was still processing the thought of The Great Dragon returning. It wasn’t his father, sure, but it was at least someone.

                “Are you _sure_?”

                “Swear on my son’s grave, sire.”

                The poor man almost toppled back when Cenred ran past him and into the corridor leading to the courtyard. He heard – or at least thought so – the mighty wings, the air whistling around them, the sheer _might_ of The Great Dragon radiating magic and power, dwarfing everything around him. Cenred hadn’t seen Kilgharrah since that cursed day when his father threw himself on the dragon’s back, only never to return. It had been more than twenty years since then; what kind of power grew for so long before freeing The Great Dragon?

                He did not believe his eyes when the familiar claws drew sparks from the cobblestone and the wings he’d touched so often as a child flapped and fluttered close to the body. Kilgharrah’s golden eyes glowed in the dark like the moon above, and made him look all the more surreal. His scales glistened, reflecting the torchfires. The soldiers were lighting more and more and _more_ ; the younger ones crowded as close as they dared: they had only heard the tales of dragons, too young or not even born to witness the majesty of the Rulers of the Sky. There was a whirlwind of whispers and gasps all around Kilgharrah. Cenred thought he heard muffled crying and if he wasn’t himself on the verge of tears he would’ve immediately punished the whole garrison. His heart was hammering against his ribcage so hard he could hear it between his ears, and his eyes were welling. Kilgharrah was back. Kilgharrah was... home.

_“Αδελφεός!”_

                He did not recognize the voice that tore out of his chest. It was a voice of thunder and metal ringing; it pierced through the crowd and hushed them all, and it struck The Great Dragon like a spear. Kilgharrah shuddered. His eyes, to that moment calmly looking at the people surrounding him, shot up and caught Cenred’s gaze.

                Cenred let out a shaky breath. Memories overwhelmed him like a wave of the Great Seas. He opened his mouth to say something else, and failed. Kilgharrah lowered his head, and though his expression was hard to guess in the flickering lights, it seemed as if he was smiling. His wings fluttered again.

                In the silence after Cenred’s cry someone shuffled, and gasped.

                “He’s bleeding!”

                The stupor let go of Cenred’s legs and in a moment he was there next to his friend, one hand running over The Great Dragon’s wing, the other beckoning for light.

                “You’re hurt,” he said sheepishly, still trying to come to his senses. At least his voice had gone back to normal. He did not like that other one, did not want to think of its implications. Kilgharrah was home and he needed help and adequate treatment, after all these years who knew what–

                “Cenred,” the dragon muttered, and turned his head to look at him. His quiet voice was as calm as Cenred remembered it, despite… despite everything. “Stop fretting, kingling.”

                “Who’s fretting?” Cenred protested, and a blush warmed his cheeks. A mixture of bashfulness and pleasure filled his chest when he heard his childhood nickname. Only the dragons called Lot and him ‘kinglings’. “You’re injured, but if you want to bleed to death I’ll respect your wish,” he added, trying to appear humouring. Still, he did not remove his hands from the dragon’s wing, and Kilgharrah, in turn, did not pull it away from him. Was it really the same Cenred remembered from his childhood? He could not stop feeling for the wound, the bone and membrane under his fingers so real to his touch, and yet…

                The smell of acrid smoke stung his nose and throat. Kilgharrah had probably snorted.

                “I won’t bleed to death from a few pinpricks, I assure you,” The Great Dragon laughed. His booming voice sent cries and gasps of awe through the crowd around him.

                “Then let me offer you food at least,” Cenred insisted. He needed to busy himself with something. If he stayed still, if there was silence and a moment… he did not want to embarrass himself in front of his men. He was a bit too old to cry like a child in front of people.

                The dragon blinked, watching him in silence for a few seconds. “Very well,” he finally said.

                Cenred turned towards the crowd. “Gather all the cattle of the nearest villages and bring it here. The men will be compensated later. Go, I SAID GO!”

                His men scuttled and scattered, some to gather the animals, other to prepare the fires. A portion of the meat was going, of course, to themselves – an occasion this big called for an immediate feast. Carrying out the order as fast as possible was to their benefit as well, and Cenred relied on that, in addition to the older ones’ reminiscence. Cenred’s own heart was bursting with joy, and the old boyish habit of hugging his friend tickled his arms again.

                He forced himself to let go of Kilgharrah and moved in front of the dragon to save him the straining of the neck. The Great Dragon followed him with head and eyes, his yellow unblinking gaze seemingly the same as twenty years ago. Cenred hooked his thumbs into his belt to rest his arms and prevent himself from further gesturing and fretting.

                “Are you in need of anything else?” he asked, “Anything at all? Surely you won’t crouch idly in the courtyard like a dog.”

                Kilgharrah chuckled. “I have little desire for you to be my wet nurse. I will take the food you offer, and I will hear your stories, for I feel you have much to tell me.” His eyes glowed brighter for a second; something in his expression changed, but Cenred could not tell what, and if it was for the worse. For a second, he thought the dragon would say more, but the silence settled between them and only grew.

                “I’ll see to the feast, then.”

                Kilgharrah spread his wings. The gust of wind beneath them brushed Cenred’s face and brought back the dread of that day. His guts twisted like he had swallowed merciless poison. “Where are you going?” he yelled, trying to outcry the noise of the dragon’s wings.

                “Didn’t I tell you not to fret?” Kilgharrah mocked him, and with one powerful bat flew away.

                Cenred watched him rise higher and higher, until he was no bigger than a sparrow against the full moon. The Great Dragon slowly circled over the castle, sometimes flying out of sight, towards the Forest of Essetir, sometimes very close to the towers of the castle, but never landing. Cenred’s heart eventually went back to its normal pace and his chest relaxed enough to let him breathe at ease.

                “I’d fly even higher if I had been in prison for so long,” someone nearby said. There was tenderness and sorrow in that voice, and also fear; Cenred could not blame the man for any of those feelings. The soldier was right, though. Perhaps Cenred was indeed fretting too much.

                But Kilgharrah was home, and for the first time in so many years Cenred felt… at ease. His kin was with him now. They could talk whenever.

                Later, when the meat was cooked and the cups began to fill and spill Cenred sounded the war horn to invite The Great Dragon to the feast in his honour. He doubted anyone in the castle could holler that loud, and he did not want to use the _other_ voice, loud as it was.

                Kilgharrah took his time, circling like a bird of prey, until he landed in front of the enormous pile of meat, all graceful limbs and surge of power. Cenred saw where the wing was tattered, but at least it did not drip with blood anymore. Kilgharrah was a creature of magic, after all. He was going to heal just fine without Cenred’s help.

                He raised his goblet at Kilgharrah, then sat down and drank until it was empty. Last time they had done something like this his father, mother, and Lot were there too, and instead of wine his brother and he had drank juice prepared personally by their mother the Queen. He clenched his jaw. That particular memory was so bittersweet he could never banish it from his mind.

                “You couldn’t have known,” Kilgharrah murmured. Cenred raised his gaze from the goblet and saw The Great Dragon watching him with eyes half-lidded. “It was destiny, kingling, and it came to pass.”

                “Amusing how it always comes to that, doesn’t it?” Cenred busied himself refilling his goblet to avoid looking at Kilgharrah. There was no rejoicing in The Great Dragon’s return without remembrance of how and why he had left. “I wonder if knowing fulfils it faster.”

                “Do not disgrace yourself with petulance,” the dragon scolded him. “There are forces far greater than you and I in this world. They have no concern for our perception of time.”

                Cenred smirked. It had been a while since Kilgharrah had preached to him about the _Great Forces and All_. “You are right, of course,” he teased the dragon and busied his mouth with his own serving of meat.

                Kilgharrah squinted at him with mild disapproval, but did not argue further.

                For a good while there was silence between them, save for the crunching of bones between the dragon’s mighty teeth. Not too far away rang the clamour and merriment of the men, every now and then outcried by a loud burst of laughter. After some consideration Cenred had called in the closest ring of scouts to join the feast. All of his men could use the time to enjoy themselves a bit. Camelot was probably in ruins, Tir Mor was peaceful and weak, and Mercia had too much trouble at her northern borders to throw herself into strife with Essetir. It was indeed a merry night.

                The men had built a fire in a sandy patch void of grass not too far from the castle wall. Rugs and a chair were taken out for Cenred’s comfort. He was sitting to the side of Kilgharrah’s head, just out of arm’s reach. He did not trust himself with his hands, even if they were busy ripping meat and feeding his mouth. He felt very capable of throwing plate and pride aside to embrace the dragon’s body or glue his cheek to the scaly leg.

                But there was more than the physical space between them; there was a gaping, dark chasm of twenty years and more. Things were different, things had changed; Cenred had changed and, he had the feeling that, in his own ways, The Great Dragon had changed as well.

                “How did you escape?” he asked some time after Kilgharrah had fed and a guard had come to stoke the fire.

                The Great Dragon turned one golden eye to look at Cenred. “I made Emrys promise he’d free me after all I did for him. He kept that promise in the end.”

                “Camelot lies in ruins then?” Cenred was pleasantry surprised vengeance had finally reached for Uther Pendragon’s neck. It was about time, even if it was not done by Cenred’s hand. He shifted in his seat, gripping the armrests in excitement.

                Kilgharrah shook his head. “Emrys is the right hand of Arthur Pendragon. He loves Camelot as Wulfar once loved Essetir.”

                Cenred spat at the fire and the flames sizzled. “No man loved his land more than my father.” It stung, that Kilgharrah would use his father for comparison. He bit back on the ‘instead of me’ but the thought was too fast and slid through his mind like a snake before he could stop it. Maybe at the moment Essetir was not what it had been _once,_ but one day surely… “He denied you your rightful vengeance then,” he growled instead, and did not bother to hide the spite in his voice.

                The Great Dragon was silent for a moment. “He banned me from the kingdom,” and then, as if it was an afterthought, “He’s a dragonlord, just like you.”

                Cenred dug his fingers into the armrests. There was a crack; he didn’t know if it came from the chair or the fire. Being a dragonlord was nothing to be happy about; a thousand times he wished his father alive, rather than being passed the ‘gift’. Did Emrys feel the same?

                “I am no dragonlord,” he said sulking, reaching for the old feeling of denial that his father was dead and the reimbursement for that was absolute power over dragons… over Kilgharrah. He wanted no power over his childhood friend. What good could come of it?

                “Did you not speak to me in the Voice when you first saw me?”

                “I…”

                Cenred blinked, realising he had been staring at the fire all along, and the brightness was making his eyes water, and his vision blur and twist. He turned his head and saw Kilgharrah looking at him with tenderness in his eyes Cenred had forgotten the dragon was capable of. Kilgharrah the Wise, Kilgharrah the Benevolent, Kilgharrah The Great Dragon, King Wulfar’s best friend, bright yellow eyes and expression calmer than a winter lake. A surge of pain and affection spread through Cenred’s chest, rose to his throat and chocked him.

                “I missed you so much.”

                Before he knew it he was pressing his forehead and palms against Kilgharrah’s chest. The scales prickled his skin even through the tough leather of his sleeves. His father was long dead, his mother and Lot were never coming back, but Kilgharrah had come back to him. Relief and affection were washing over Cenred in great waves, and he had the feeling he was not above tearing up.

                Kilgharrah shifted his weight but did not draw back, nor did he push Cenred away. “Your father lives in you, kingling. Do not let him fade.” His breath rustled Cenred’s hair and the locks tickled his neck. Things might have changed beyond recognition for all of them but Kilgharrah was still _family_.

                He managed a chuckle. “I was worried you’ve stopped speaking in riddles.”

**Author's Note:**

> *Αδελφεός - Brother (Homeric Greek, which serves as the Dragon Tongue).


End file.
